


Soon

by BoyGirlBothNoneImTheUniverse



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Werecreatures, Gen, Implied Relationships, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-02
Updated: 2017-11-02
Packaged: 2019-01-25 03:52:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12522352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BoyGirlBothNoneImTheUniverse/pseuds/BoyGirlBothNoneImTheUniverse
Summary: "The one where Patrick falls for the Boogie Man."--A rewrite of 'Mr. Boogie Man', which I wrote four years ago.





	Soon

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Mr. Boogie Man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/931329) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account). 



> I always wanted to write a sequel to 'Mr. Boogie Man', but I decided I wanted to rewrite it first, and try and establish the lore of the universe better.

Patrick used to hate the dark. He never thought monsters were waiting in his closet, or underneath his bed, but rather he feared the pitch black tidal wave that came from outside. He remembers when the power went out once when he was younger, and the slow darkness that crept up around them as the evening turned to night. The darkness had been so encompassing that he had gripped his mother's shirt all night long, trying to force his eyes to find something in the darkness that encompassed them. It always feels like the darkness is trying to reach from the outside and grab him.

 

His fear is well known amongst the family, his younger sisters always making fun of him. That pitch-black color had been his downfall one too many times when he was younger. Now, though, now he's no longer afraid.

 

He's ten and his parents agreed to let him go around the block to gather some last-minute candy from the neighborhood. He's ecstatic, excited to visit the house two doors down, their habit of giving out big candy bars making his mouth water. He keeps going down the street, farther and farther, as his bag fills with various candies. It's only as he leaves a small brick house with a bulging sack of candy that he looks up and realizes he doesn't know where he is. He twitches nervously, fidgeting as he tries to remember which way he came from. Across the street is a park and Patrick jolts forward. He's been to this park plenty of times in his young life. He should have no problem walking around until he spots a familiar landmark.

 

The park is surrounded by a tall wood that looks inky in the darkening night. The street lights give him some leeway in seeing around him, but they only stretch so far before he's narrowing his eyes, squinting to try and see everything around him.

 

He spots the swing set and fountain he plays on every Wednesday evening and immediately books it over to the fountain. He takes a short drink, wetting his parched mouth, before he turns and examines that open path that lays on the edge of the woods.

 

The path winds around the park and lets out a few houses down from his house. It takes less than five minutes to get from the fountain and through the woods to his front door.

 

He's always been scared of the woods. He usually goes around to the other entrance that lays a block or two away from his house, but he's already late. If he takes the long way, he'll be in even more trouble that he already is.

 

He's sniffling as he enters the woods, wiping at his slow tears. He's not a baby, so he shouldn't be crying about being late and getting itno trouble. He shouldn't be crying because big kids don't cry when scared.

 

A hedge to his right rustle ever so slightly and Patrick's hear hammers. He's seen the movies where knife wielding murderers pop up and stab people. The family stories shared during family reunions about the roaming vampire who stumbled upon a defenseless werecub.

 

It never ends well for the werecub.

 

He's trying to stifle his panicked breathing, little shaking gasps escaping him, when bright yellow eyes pop up from behind the edge. He gasps out, his cry echoing in the night, and suddenly the eyes are closer, a figure emerging from its hiding place.

 

The man is short, his dark hair neatly styles and his clothes clean. His smirk is twisted, the look in his eyes causing Patrick's stomach to drop. The man starts to speak, his tone taunting, but Patrick hears nothing, not past the rushing sound defeaning in his ears. Patrick just barely sees the blur as the man darts forward, his clawed hand outstretched.

 

Patrick had blinked and suddenly something was on in front of the man, blocking him in his lunge towards him. The something was a shadow, a darkened 3D figure that stood taller than even Patrick's attacker. The tendrils that reach out from the mass whip around, protecting Patrick in a wide arch.

 

The yellow eyed man hissed, his eyes narrowing in anger. His voice was raspy and muddled through sharp teeth as he snarled, "This one is mine, Boogie Man."

 

"No," the voice stated simply, the voice surprisingly warm even when answering in a cold tone.

 

Patrick blinks, some of his terror vanishing. He tilts his head, taking in the shadow. It almost looked like the shadow was—solidifying.

 

"Who do you think you are, Night Walker?" The man growled in dissatisfaction, shifting his stance to look taller and more menacing.

 

The shadow suddenly gained color, a tan flesh exposed. The man's dark brown hair is short, and he's dressed in a suit just as dark as the shadows that had once surrounded him. Patrick can't see his face, not with the man's back to him.

 

His attacker's face transforms before his very eyes. His once yellow gaze shifts to brown, his snarl now forming a look of horror. The now terrified man opens his mouth to say something, maybe beg, but then he's lying on the ground, bleeding out from the gash across his chest. His gasps for air are wet and they make Patrick nauseous.

 

"Toews," the man gasps out, blood dripping from his mouth.

 

The shadow man, the Night Walker, the Boogie Man, says nothing, only raising his hand in an apparent warning.

 

"No!" the bleeding man shouts, his voice full of desperation. "I'm sorry. I overstepped! Please, please let me walk."

 

The man, Toews, stops his hand from going higher. He glances behind him and Patrick sees his face for the first time. His face is just darkness for a moment before a handsome man stares down at Patrick. His face is neutral as he takes in Patrick's hunched form and the nauseous look spread across his face. His eyes are brown, a red ring surrounding the outer rim of the iris.

 

"What do you think, young Mimic? Should he be spared, or should he pay for refusing my easily met request?"

 

It takes a second before Patrick realizes he's addressing him. Asking Patrick if the man should be killed.

 

"Please don't kill him! He's scary and mean, but nobody deserves to die!"

 

Toews raises his eyebrow, a look of surprise and intrigue flowing over his face. "Spare him?" Toews says slowly, looking Patrick up and down. "He wanted to kill you, Mimic. He wanted to drain the blood from your body and then feast on your flesh."

 

Patrick winces, wondering who exactly told Toews that telling a ten-year-old that he was almost killed was an acceptable thing to do.

 

"Ew," Patrick says, scrunching up his nose and ignoring how his heart has now sped up, spiking painfully in his chest, "that's so gross. He still doesn't deserve to die," Patrick says in his most earnest voice, trying to convince Toews.

 

Toews stares at him for a moment longer before lowering his hand. The bleeding man somehow stands, flashing away. There's only a pool of blood left to give away that he was once standing there.

 

Patrick bites his lip and worries it in between his teeth as Toews takes a step closer to him.

 

"You are odd, for a Mimic," Toews states with a peculiar smile.

 

"Mimic?" Patrick asks hesitantly, wanting to know what Toews means when he calls him that. He's said it several times throughout the conversation he had with the bleeding man.

 

Toews' eyebrow raises once again and his eyes light up. "You do not know what you are?"

 

Patrick stares at him blankly.

 

Toews lets out a laugh, something Patrick wouldn't think someone who's called a Night Walker would be capable of.

 

"You have much to learn young one. How old are you?"

 

Patrick briefly debates not telling him, flashing back to his mother's warnings of talking to strangers, but he figures it's far too late for any of that now. "I'm ten."

 

Toews whistles and shakes his head and says in reply, "No wonder you know nothing; you're much too young."

 

"What should I know?" Patrick asks, moving towards Toews in curiosity.

 

Toews smiles, a sleazy half smirk that leaves Patrick shivering, as he puts his hands behind his back.

 

"I'm sure your parents will tell you when you come of age."

 

"Oh," Patrick mutters, upset he won't be figuring out what Toews is talking about. His parents say that often too, 'we'll tell you when you're older'. Patrick wonders if it has to do with the inheritance he is supposed to get when he turns thirteen. He thinks it must involve the spooky stories his family so loves to tell.

 

Toews gives him a sympathetic smile and he is suddenly kneeling in front of Patrick, their eyes meeting. Toews touches his cheek lightly and Patrick feels hot all of a sudden, like a spark has dug its way into Patrick's blood stream and is traveling along his body. It burns at first contact, but leaves a pleasant warmth after the initial sting.

 

Toews' smirk widens as he says, "That's fascinating."

 

Patrick squints in confusion, his body feeling light. His mind is hazy, and he feels himself fall before everything is black.

 

The next morning, he wakes up in his room to his mother shaking his shoulder. She chastises him, telling him he's lucky she heard him come in last night, otherwise she never would've known he was home. He stares up at her in silence, his tongue not working as he tries to rationalize what happened to him. He thinks of telling her what happened, telling her he met something unexplainable, but then a flash of cold lips against his forehead and soothing words whispered against his wrist keep him quiet.

 

His mother gives him a strange look, rolling her eyes at his groggy appearance. "Pancakes in ten minutes," she huffs out, leaving him alone in his room.

 

His room. That he doesn't remember arriving to. He glances down at his warm wrist, the pulsing heat leaping from a concentrated area to flow throughout his whole body. The pitch-black mark lays scorched into his skin, a curling pattern that reminded Patrick of his curls when his hair grew too long. The curls ended in sharp points. It wasn't big, but the contrast against his sin made is noticeable. His mother had looked right at it and no sense of recognition had been seen in her eyes.

 

He rubs at the mark, shivering at the seeping feeling of _something_ that flowed out when he touched it. He rubs his thumb over the mark one last time before shifting and rising out of bed, the promise of pancakes already leading his mind down a different road of thought.

 

So Patrick used to hate the darkness that creeps around them at night. He was almost killed by a vampire, a bloodsucker, who had pinpointed him as a young werecub who was unattended. Darkness had almost gotten him killed, but then it had also brought Toews to him. A Night Walker, a Boogie Man, a creature that lives off other people's fear, a man who had marked Patrick for some reason. Marked Patrick as property.

 

He listens closely to his family's stories, embracing the fact that he is a Mimic, a werecreature. He shows no surprise when his parents approach him on his thirteenth birthday. He instead lends his time to training, practicing his shifting alone, and then with his sisters when they too are told the truth. He shifts for the first time at the age of seventeen and perfects it soon after.

 

The mark grows with his talent, stretching from his wrist and encompassing the entirety of his arm. It wraps around his shoulder blade before it stops. It glows occasionally, a dark orange shift that leaves Patrick blissed out. He avoids touching it during the day, mostly because when he brushes it now that feeling of _something_ from before is processed as pleasure, leaving Patrick hard and aching. He does touch it at night, running his fingers along the pattern until he's learned it all over again.

 

The mark even shows up in his Calling, the sharp lines contrasting with his light cream fur. Nobody ever notices the sharp color contrast against the pelt of his fennec fox form. Nobody ever sees the mark, not like Patrick does.

 

He would be of maturity soon. His Calling was found and his shifting near perfect. His eighteenth birthday marked the beginning of his Searching season. He would retain his looks, his youth, until he met his Match. He would then age at the rate that they did, allowing him to be with them for as long as possible.

 

He takes in a breath, shaking his thoughts away from the past, instead looking himself over in the mirror. His suit fits him well, the dark blue color a nice cool color to contrast is skin tone. He nods to himself, straightening his tie, before he heads out of his room, ready to meet his family for an early birthday dinner. He takes one glance back at his dark room, searching the corners for anything suspicious. He wonders only briefly before leaving, closing the door behind him.

 

The darkness in the room shifts, a shadow darker than night stands in the corner, its red rimmed eyes sharp and anticipatory.

 

"Soon," the figure hums. "Soon."


End file.
